A Hero's Sin
by Buttons14
Summary: Jack Kelly has been missing since November, 1902. Now someone wants to find him, but what will happen when they discover his new life and new family? CHAPTER TEN: It was around this time in my life that I started to dream.
1. Prologue

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Summary: **Jack Kelly has been missing since November, 1902. Now someone wants to find him, but what will happen when they discover his new life and new family?

**A/N: **So…this got taken down by administration. I am reposting without a casting call, so take THAT! Please read! There is more information in the closing author's note.

**Prologue**

After the strike Jack Kelly was on top of the world. No one chased him through the streets anymore. His boys looked up to him more than ever. Nights with his girl, Sarah Jacobs, and longer ones on the fire escape, swapping stories with his best friend, Sarah's brother, David. The Jacobs family adored Jack. Someday, they all believed, without question, he would quit being a newsboy and marry Sarah.

Someday.

In late 1902, when Jack and Sarah were 20, Esther Jacobs found her daughter throwing up over the chamber pot in the corner of the small flat.

"Oh, honey," she said, drawing Sarah near, her voice thick with her New York accent, "Are you not feeling well?"

Obviously she wasn't.

The doctor confirmed it: there was a two-week old child in Sarah's womb. And, with no surprise to her family, Sarah was thrilled. She danced around the apartment, humming and grinning. Jack was going to marry her because he loved her. And because of their unborn child.

It was early one Wednesday morning when she told him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, showing off his strong arms. Though it was cold, Jack wore no coat. His pants were soft and worn. Sarah stepped towards him and the words came out in a rush. The wind rippled through his hair, blowing a strand over his grey eyes.

She stepped in for a hug. He stepped back, almost dropping his papers.

"I…I have to go. To go think about all of this," he stuttered, turning and leaving Sarah in the middle of the market. The dark, cold day closed in around him as he fought his way through the crowds. A tear rolled down Sarah's cheek.

0o0o0o0

There were only two things Jack wanted in life: to be a Manhattan newsie or a Western cowboy. If he couldn't be the first he would be the latter. The next morning, when David showed up at the post to collect his daily hundred, Jack was nowhere to be seen.

David found Racetrack leaning against a short building, smoking a cheap five cent cigar and flipping through his papers.

"Have you seen Jack?" David asked.

Racetrack exhaled a cloud of blue smoke. He coughed into his sleeve. "He was gone this morning Davey. I'm sorry."

Racetrack knew something was up. He had always admired Jack, but he couldn't condone him for something he may have done to the Jacobs'.

**End Prologue**

OK. So this was a re-post for the main reason that this fic got originally taken down. If I need any help with characters I will ask those who submitted characters through email. Please review, even ifyouhave already read this!


	2. The Year is 1920

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 1—The Year is 1920**

When I was little my Uncle David's friends would come over for their weekly game of poker. Because we had a large lacquer table that my granddaddy let them use our residence was the usual spot on Friday evenings.

Mr. Higgins, as he is well known as now, would bring a deck of cards that they used week in and week out. He taught me how to play Go Fish on them. I can still remember the soft, worn edges of the cards. They used to call him 'Racetrack'.

Mama would sometimes let me go sit with Uncle David while he played. He would ask me if he should fold. I always said no. After the games I would get a tousle on the head and a penny pressed to my hand.

"Go get yourself a good night's sleep," Mr. Hunter would say, grinning widely, his cheek disappearing beneath his brown eye patch. Uncle David would kiss me on the forehead and send me back to my Mama.

I liked poker night until I was about seven years old when Mr. Higgins brought her along. She was only four years old. Small and plump and pretty, sitting on her daddy's lap, laughing as the men played poker. Mr. Higgins called me over.

"Nichole," he said, patting the girl on the head. "This is my daughter Alana. Would you mind taking her to your room and playing for a while?"

Deftly I nodded and reached for the girls' hand. She took it and I led her to my and my Mama's room.

Alana smiled in her four-year old way. "Doesn't your daddy play poker?" she asked, blinking innocently. I bit the inside of my cheek.

"I suppose he does."

That was thirteen years ago.

0o0o0o0

When I was little I would hear things about how much of a 'hero' my father was. People would say:

"Jacky boy, he was a hero, wasn't he Sarah?"

And my Mama would glance at me and nod sadly. "Yes, you're right. He was."

She never said anything bad about him. It was as if he could hear her. The people who would sing his praises didn't know about him, so I didn't hate them. I pitied them for being misinformed. For believing in a façade of a hero. For looking up to someone who would so easily just leave them, just like he did me.

0o0o0o0

My mama named me 'Nichole Sullivan'. Uncle David's friends all said that my daddy was running from the name 'Francis Sullivan'. Every time she heard this, my mama smiled. I think she gave me the name 'Sullivan' instead of 'Kelly' as her way at getting back at him.

Or maybe it was her way at getting back _to_ him.

But the reality was that he was out somewhere in the west with a western accent and a big western family.

The closest I'd ever gotten to seeing him was in an old newspaper from 1899, the year he turned seventeen. 1899 were my daddy's glory days. His hero days.

In his seventeen-year-old picture he is smiling, surrounded by his friends, including Uncle David. 'Children's Crusade' read the headline 'Newsies Stop the World'. Quite vividly does Uncle David remember this 'Children's Crusade', when the newsboys of New York City fought against Mr. Joseph Pulitzer and Mr. William Randolph Hearst. Mama remembers it well too because that's when she first kissed my daddy.

0o0o0o0

The year was 1920. Pidge, Alana and I were sitting around Pidge's bedside table and shifting the marble tablets around.

"What's so great about this game anyways?" asked Alana loudly, brushing a curly black hair out of her face.

Pidge pulled her sweater tighter around her thin, low-necked dress. "It's the newest thing," she said, as if excusing the boredom of it all.

The tiles clicked; the green and white shifting about the table.

"Can't we go out?" asked Alana next, flipping over her tiles and lining them up, shifting others over to make the respected room.

Pidge shot a look at me. I was the oldest, I was supposed to be 'in charge', but the truth was, Alana usually took control, even if she was three years younger than me. I think she got it from her daddy, who was one of the leading distributors of cigars in all of Manhattan.

Pidge reached across the room and pulled a record out from under her bed. She dusted it off and flipped it onto the record player. The quick saxophone chords blasted through before the lyrics rang clear.

Alana forgot her complaints. "James Reese Europe! He's so darb!"° She squealed and pulled a pillow to her chest, knocking over her mahjong pieces. Pidge and Alana got up and danced. The piano kept pace.

"I wish I could go out with you!" Alana sighed wistfully when the song ended. The mahjong pieces were scattered about the floor. Alana collapsed into her skirts. Since she was only fifteen Pidge, Lyra—who was a year older than us and had an internship with the Sun—and I refused to take her with us.

There was a knock at the door. A spectacled man stuck his head in the room.

"Rachel," he sighed, "please turn down that music. I don't want calls from the neighbors."

Pidge reached over and pulled the crank off the record. The song stopped with a scratch. "Sorry daddy," she said sweetly. In all truth, Pidge could get herself anything with her smile. And I mean _anything_.

Alana began to go through Pidge's closet. I was still sitting on the floor, thinking intently with a pensive look on my face.

Pidge and Alana tried on clothes. I fingered the soft wrinkle of my skirt and felt a brown hair fall out of my bun.

People always said I looked just like my mama, that they wouldn't guess that I had any of my father in me. But Mama would tell me that I had his mouth and his ears. When I was little I would think that maybe he would come back to get his mouth and his ears, since it must be very hard to get along without it, but he never did and I stopped believing this and realized the stupidity of it.

Pidge threw my jacket at me.

"We're going to Peter's!" she cried, pulling her own coat around her. Alana switched the lights off and I followed them down the stairs, around the curving staircase.

"We're going out," Pidge told her daddy, who was sitting in the den, reading the paper. "Just to the Hunters'."

And then we left. Alana pulled open the front door and we stepped into the cold winter streets.

**End Chapter**

_Vocabulary Reference: _°Darb—a great person or thing

((So…I'm really sorry that it took me so long to update. I wish I had a good solid excuse to give you, but I don't. please review. And forgive me.))

**Shoutouts:**

**Coin—**Thanks! I'm happy to be portraying Jack in a realistic, yet rare way.

**Ccat—**Yes, I do like fighting the power. A lot.

Charlie!Muse: No you don't. you're a square.

Buttons: Hey, this fic is an ode to your reign. Shut up.

Charlie!Muse: Fine.

**C.M. Higgins—**Have I told you lately that I love you?

**Lady of Tir Na Nog**

**Two-Bits—**Don't worry. I cheat…wait….no I don't….(looks around cautiously) Email me for more info on the matter! This fic may be bugged! Dear God, I am so paranoid!

**Nakais Aidan-Sun—**I am updating! (cheesy grin)

**And everyone else who reviewed the first time. I have your names _somewhere_, I'm just not sure where. I kind of lost it. PLEASE REVIEW!**

Oh yeah! The pope has died! Being the good Catholic that I am, (rolls eyes) I should be more sad. SHOULDN'T I?


	3. Cold Sundays

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 2: Cold Sundays**

Peter was Mr. Hunter's son. He was sixteen year old, one year younger than me and one year older than Alana. Pidge and I were in the twelfth grade. The year before I had wanted to drop out, but Mama made me stay.

"Maybe your father would have stayed around if he had some responsibility and a sense of commitment. And school is a commitment."

We rarely talked about my father, so when we did I knew it was serious. I didn't argue.

0o0o0o0o0

The Hunters' flat was large. It had impressive gilded mirrors and rich colours and textures everywhere. Mr. Hunter owned a leather tanning company. He proudly flaunted it about that his workers were paid ten cents above minimum wage per month.

Peter's room was a comfortable size. It was what I suppose a boy's room should look like. He had a plain bed on one wall and an oak desk on another. He had a tall wardrobe and an expensive record player resting on a table, records strewn about the floor. Very plain. Very Peter.

He had blonde-brown curls. Mr. Hunter was always bothering him to cut it, but Peter said that he was on the verge of a new trend and refused to do so.

Peter was lying on his bed, listening to a vicious trumpet solo.

Alana was beaming, beginning a spirited waltz about the room.

"You all come to crash my rub°?" asked Peter with a grin.

We ignored him.

"Nichole!" shrieked Alana, "dance with me!"

I sighed and dropped my coat to the floor.

"Why of course Miss Higgins." I feigned a bow. Alana giggled and I took her hand. We danced; Peter did a jig in the background and Pidge turned up the volume. Outside a baby was crying.

0o0o0o0o0

It was late when the three of us emerged from Peter's room. It was dark out and Mrs. Ashleigh Hunter, Peter's mother and Mr. Hunter's wife, had left the oil lamps burning low.

"Bless her," breathed Pidge, tiptoeing to the door. She and Alana were afraid of the dark. I did my heavy coat up to my chin.

Outside the air was still but alive with harsh city sounds and soft jazz music. Out shoes clicked on the ground as we hurried home.

"So," said Alana, her breath growing in front of her. "I'm bugging my Papa to take me to Sheepshead with him! I think he's considering it." Her face was full of hope.

_Click, click. Click, click._

"You can't go to Sheepshead!" protested Pidge. "All those foul men. You're only fifteen!"

She was always the mothering one.

Alana scowled.

_Click, click. Click, click._

I shoved my hands into my pockets. Pidge's fishnets and suede heels flashed as she walked. She must have been cold.

"I'm not _only fifteen_," Alana was saying. She pulled a loose curl from her face. "I'm sixteen early in the New Year!"

Pidge didn't argue and, as always, neither did I.

We rushed past shop fronts, lit by soft candlelight. There was only a week until Christmas. One week.

_Click, click. Click, click._

Strands of tinsel hung lifeless from doorways. The pub on the corner was dead because of prohibition, but the smell of beer and sweat still hung in the crisp air.

I stopped in front of my door.

"See you in the morning," I said, pulling open a heavy door.

Alana and Pidge gave a wave and continued down the street. I climbed the stairs to our apartment and opened the door with the key I had tucked into my sock. The lights were all off. Only the pale blue moonlight shone through the window. I knelt by my bedside and crossed myself.

_Bless Mama, the Hunters, the Higgins', the McBrides, Uncle David and Aunt Emily, Mr. Conlon and Miss Banning, the Meyers', and…_

I paused in mid-prayer. My eyes flicked out to the solitary moon.

…_and please bless Papa._

I dressed in the dark and crawled into bed.

0o0o0o0o0

In the morning Mama woke me for early mass. I pleaded not to go, but she said:

"Nichole, it is obvious that humanity will not save us, so maybe God will."

I carelessly changed into my Sunday clothes and pulled my hair up.

Mama made oatmeal on the stovetop and by nine o'clock we were out the door. Mass hadn't begun yet when we entered the church. We took out seats. Mama clutched her purse in her hands. Her knuckles were turning white and china-like. Uncle David arrived and sat down on the end of the pew. He kissed Mama on the cheek and gave me a hug. Aunt Emily slid in next to me. She smelt like rose water and her dark, wavy hair was held up with a delicate-looking jade clip.

The church was filling and the bells rung powerfully. Mama glanced around, her soft lashes jerking back and forth with each movement. She drew her breath in shortly and leaned over me.

"Can you believe her?" she asked in a hushed voice. "The _nerve_ of her; showing up like this."

Aunt Emily looked around. She made a clicking sound and shook her head at Mama. "Sarah, this is God's house."

I kept my head tilted towards my lap, but I snuck a look out of the corner of my eye.

Eva Grace worked her way down the aisle. She was dressed in all of her dancing hall glory. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head. Her dress was tight at the waist, her skirt floated above the ground. In her hand she clutched a shiny black bible. Her laced boots clicked steadily on the polished ground.

"Probably just like Medda," hissed Mama, glaring at Eva.

Aunt Emily didn't say anything.

Medda Larkson was the woman who lived over the infamous Irving Hall. She used to be a showgirl. Miss Medda Larkson: The Swedish Meadowlark; a 'role model', an independent woman. But all the young ladies from her reign had grown up into respectable women who found her activities offensive and crude. She retired from her 'duties' and granted all future responsibilities to her beautiful, but slightly hard-headed niece, Eva Grace.

When mass began Mama fell quiet, shooting glances towards Eva.

We sang a hymn, said an Our Father, a Hail Mary. We had communion and the collection plate was passed around. Eva pulled a whole nickel from her corset at let it land in the plate with a tinny _clink_.

Mama looked away. We didn't have that kind of money. Not even for God, who Mama had become a firm believer in during the last fifteen years.

0o0o0o0o0

One of Mama's good friends is Miss Avelina Banning. She lives across the hall from us with Mr. Conlon. Mama likes Miss Banning because she is soft spoken and old fashioned. She has a British accent and tends to blur her words together when she gets excited, but this is very rare. Miss Banning is very calm most of the time. She is very young, closer in age to me than Mr. Conlon or Mama. Her hair is a very dark brown, almost black colour and her eyes are green, glinting when she tells a story.

She and Mama sit at the kitchen table with cups of coffee, talking about how they're going to have to work hard to pay the rent this month or how cold it has gotten outside.

Miss Banning has a second-hand record player that she lets me use. She brought it with her from England, where she left her family. She says she misses them and that her smallest sister would be around my age by now.

When she comes over I lie on Mama's bed, on my back with my head upside down over the side. I play Miss Banning's records; Mozart, Bach and Beethoven. They are lively, sad and emotional. I close my eyes and imagine colours.

I hate the colour yellow. It reminds me of warmth and sand. And I always thought that New Mexico would be full of sand.

**End Chapter**

_Vocabulary: _°rub—a dance party

((Hi everyone! I hope you liked that! Tomorrow is my birthday! I will cry if you don't all review!)) ((Well…maybe...))

**Shoutouts:**

**XBeLLaViTaX—**Yeah, I like that they travel with the time too. I had to do a lot of research about the period to get the information! (the slang, styles, important info, etc.) Thanks so much for noticing. And yes. The pope is dead.

**Erin Go Bragh—**I made it a girl because I figured most of the other characters would be girls and that would be easier to write in.

**Cyanne 76—**Aw! I love you! It was so nice of you to say that you can relate to Sarah because of how you wrote her (not in those words, but that's what you meant, right?). And Jack has always been a bit of a…erm….shifty chap.

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**I'm Roman-Catholic/Buddhist. My mom is Roman-Catholic and I've been confirmed and all that jazz, but my dad is Buddhist, so….iunno…I realized that I included a lot of religion in this chapter. It's kind of strange.

**Ccat—**Thanks! The ear and mouth thing sounded weird to me, but people seemed to like it, so I guess weird is good.

**Nakaia Aidan-Sun—**I wouldn't know about the work/guys thing. But juggling school, soccer and….more soccer (I now play on two teams! That means up to to practices per day!) is tough. I guess it's kind of the same thing.

**C.M. Higgins—**(panics) Oh my God! You live off of these! I'm so sorry! I hope you didn't die while I wasn't updating!

Charlie!Muse: Sarcasm is _so_ lost on you.  
Buttons: Shut up…uh…fatty!  
Charlie!Muse: huh?

**Cross—**Yes ma'am (salutes)

**Gypsyruth1899—**Everyone is saying that and I totally agree! It is really rare that Jack is portrayed in an unflattering way. I was kind of afraid of being super-flamed by all the Jack-lovers out there.

**Pidge—**Huh?

**Lida Rose—**Thanks! I'm glad that it's believable!

**NOTE: **_I am now going to watch _The Amnityville Horror_ and I am _so_ scared. Some birthday present everyone. I'm going to have nightmares forever! AND COOKIES TO ANYONE WHO CAN GUESS MY AGE SINCE IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!_

PS. Pidge, you don't count.


	4. Questions and Pride

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 3: Questions and Pride**

I was about eleven when the questions started.

To me, my father was never anything more than a good story and a wrinkled newspaper photograph. I hadn't ever seen him as a real person. He was just something we brushed aside, like potato peelings or the leaves that follow us home in the fall.

It was because of Alana and Mr. Higgins that I started thinking. They get me thinking about him.

I liked the way Mr. Higgins would kiss Alana on the forehead and the way she would talk about her 'Daddy'. I made up a list.

_Nichole's List of Questions:  
1. What colour is Papa's hair?  
2. Why does he like Santa Fe so much?  
3. Where are my grandparents?  
4. Does Papa have any brothers or sisters?  
5. What is Papa's horse's name? (_since, of course, he was now a Western Cowboy)  
_6. Does Papa like music?  
7. Did he really meet Mr. Pulitzer, like Uncle David says?  
8. Do his ears and mouth really look like mine?  
9. Does he have a big ranch and a six shooter?  
10. Does he have a family?_

But, being an eleven-year-old, I wasn't very good at being discreet and when Mama found the questions she told me to stop wondering and entertaining ideas about him. So I didn't and even when I was older I didn't dare wondering about him. At least, not too much. Just in case Mama found out.

0o0o0o0o0

Lyra turned up at my door. She was wearing a heavy grey coat with shiny black buttons. Her hat had a single, long feather protruding from it. Her cheeks were rosy and her green-grey eyes were bright. In her hands she clutched a thin clutch and a round, navy blue hat box.

She ruffled into the flat in a flurry of coat tails and sweet perfume. Her curly brown hair bounced with every crisp step she took.

She looked me up and down in the unnerving way only she ever did. "Nichole…why in heavens name are you wearing your mother's clothes?"

I knew better to protest. Lyra was always the sophisticated, outspoken one, cutting to the chase. Pidge was the fun-loving, sweet and cheerful one. And Alana was the playful, adventure-thirsty one. I was the boring, safe, always-think-twice-before-acting one.

And it had always been that way.

"These are not my mother's clothes Arin Meyers, and you know it."

_11. Could he joke around with his friends, because I can't._

Lyra clicked her tongue disapprovingly and looked around the apartment, as if wishing something with modern style would jump out at her. It didn't.

"At least do your hair better," she insisted, yanking the bun out and fixing my boring, straight brown hair with a intricate working of overlapped shining bobby pins, which she produced from her clutch. Next she pulled a blouse out of her hat box, insisted I put it on, and rolled the waist of my skirt so that it rested just below the knee.

I was used to these 'sessions' by now. I could very well take care of it all by myself, but I would rather not. I just tell myself that one day Lyra would give up trying and leave me be. That day never came.

Lyra threw my jacket to me and led me out the door. I locked the door and slipped the key into my pocket, trotting to keep up with Lyra's ambitious pace.

"Where are we going?" I queried, flattening my hair cautiously along my head with a gloved hand.

"Christmas…" she paused, "browsing."

"Lyra, you know I don't have any—" money.

She didn't let me finish. "Don't worry." She pulled a cheque out of her clutch and unfolded it so that I could see the clear black ink print. _$100/ One Hundred Dollars_. Wow. "Payday. Denton gave me a Christmas bonus."

_No kidding._

"So we need to stop at the bank first so I can cash it and make a deposit. Heaven knows I'm not going to be spending this much." She laughed, discreetly flipping her hair over one shoulder so that it was out of her face.

The streets were busy. People were rushing in every direction, pushing through the crowd with boxes full of Christmas purchases, weekend groceries and worn leather briefcases.

The streets of New York are always booming and alive. I suppose all big cities are like this.

_12. Did he have a wandering suspicion about the other parts of the world?   
13. If so, is that why he left?_

0o0o0o0o0

Svenski Bakery was owned by another newspaper veteran. His name was Stephen Svenski, or 'Crutchy', as he was known 'back in the day'. However, it had been since realized that this name was degrading and insulting and was promptly discontinued.

Mr. Svenski was a cheerful man. He had a large nose and a long, thin face, much like the rest of his body. He still wore his newsboy hat, it was grey and slightly checked. Mr. Svenski was always smiling.

_14. Did he miss his friends?_

The bakery smelt like bread and pastry. Behind the counter were two girls, Cathlynn and Allegra, who had known Mr. Svenski and each other since they were young.

Lyra approached the counter and banged her nickel down, ordering a loaf of bread and a Swedish pastry. "C'mon 'Cakes, I've seen you move faster than that!" exclaimed Lyra in a joking way as Cathlynn slid the loaf of bread into a brown bag with care. She made a face at the use of her childhood, but obviously still dear, nickname.

Allegra disappeared into the back room for a moment and came back with flour on her nose. She wiped her hands on her apron and cranked the record player in the corner. Allegra loved music, providing a fitting nickname for her.

_15. How did he get his nickname?_

Someone coughed in the back room and Mr. Svenski appeared at the doorway. His worn face brightened when he saw us. "Didn't forget about me then?" he asked.

We smiled back and Lyra took the bread and pastry, sliding the nickel across the counter. Mr. Svenski slid two pennies back. "The pastry's on the house," he told her in a booming, generous voice.

"More than we get," joked Cakes. "I'll be dammed if I ever get a free pastry."

Music laughed and wiped the flour off her nose.

There were Christmas shortbread cookies already out in the display. They were decorated with delicate green and red icing.

We made small-talk for a while, Mr. Svenski asking me about my mother and then telling me to make sure my Uncle David told him when the next poker night would be. I nodded and smiled, assuring him that I would.

As we left Cakes called out to me, "Hey, Nichole, I like that skirt!"

I shot Lyra a look and she stuck her tongue out at me.

0o0o0o0o0

The shops in Manhattan carry everything. Lyra and I browsed in a hat shop. It was warm and the lightly falling snow outside looked far away through the frosted windows. Out boots make small noises as we move carefully around the shop.

"What do you want for Christmas Nichole?" Lyra asked, fingering a hat with a lacy rim.

I shrugged. "Don't worry about it. We're not supposed to exchange anyways, right?"

Lyra paused. "I guess not."

I knew what was wrong. It was the money. She wanted to spend it.

"You wouldn't have to buy _me_ anything."

I didn't answer. I didn't _have_ to, but I would have felt awkward if I didn't.

"Really, I wouldn't mind."

"Lyra," I said, "I would. Just don't. Get Alana something instead."

Lyra's gaze lingered on me for a few seconds longer than it should have.

Sometimes I wish I didn't have pride. It hurts too much.

_11. Is he proud like me?_

**End Chapter**

((Didja like it? C'mon, I know you did! Even if you have no idea where I'm going with this. Not to worry though, I've got it all figured out. For once.))

**Shoutouts:**

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**Nope. I am younger…Yep…I'm fifteen. Whoo hoo (does unenthusiastic dance) Life is super. And sorry, but Irish is in the later chapters! You'll have to hold tight for a while!

**Coin—**Thanks for the gingantabulous (yes, I did just make that word up) Birthday wish! It was awesome. And I love Medda. And I am fifteen. Ew.

**Hawk Kelly—**Ouch. Moving out of the fourteen-year-old thing now! However, if this were The Price is Right, you would have won so far because you didn't guess too old! (bells and other annoying fanfare)

**Ccat—**I can't wait for Jack either! It's all I can do from rushing it all out, so instead I think I'm dragging it along at a snail's pace.

**Gypsyruth—**Don't worry, I may take a while, but the updates will still come. I get all my info from different sites including (www dot onlinecostumeball dot com) for fashion and (www dot angelfire dot com/co/pscst/) for music and other information.

**Two-Bits—**No problem missing my birthday. As long as you reviewed! And I am fifteen! You win!

**TIME FOR: _CONFESSIONS FROM AN ASHAMED AUTHORESS: _**_I lied about my age last year when I said I was fifteen. The truth is that I am fifteen _this_ year. Really. No lies. This time. _


	5. My Tree, My Fire Escape

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter Four: My Tree, My Fire Escape**

Our flat seemed to be taken over by the tree. No matter what, every year Mama got a tree. This year the tree was wide and tall, but Mama got a deal on it because one side was browning and dead. How can one side be alive and one be dead?

I spent half the day popping popcorn and listening to Ava's record player. I strung the popcorn onto a line of fishing wire and lay the garlands over the side of the kitchen chair. I took the tin star out of the cupboard and placed it on the table.

_Everything is ready for when Mama gets home_, I thought to myself. I made my bed and Mama's bed in my solitude. I opened the window a little bit, so that a wafting breeze found its way inside. I liked a but of a draft.

Beethoven's fifth was playing through the silence. The flat smelt like corn and pine. The dead side of the tree was shedding onto the ground, leaving a blanket of yellowing needles on the rug. I swept them up with the broom in Mama's closet and threw the needles in the garbage.

Suddenly my eye catches on something. It is a plain brown cardboard box and the memory of it claws its way to the front of my mind. Shocked that I forgot it, I pull it out of the closet, cradling it because it holds some of our most cherished holiday memories. I set it on the bed: a small box of penny Christmas ornaments Mama had collected over the years.

The box, which had become dusty over the year, and I blew the layer off the top and carried it to the kitchen where I set it down on the table. I pried open the flaps of the cardboard and reached in the box delicately.

Mama wrapped the ornaments in tissue and newspaper. There were angels and fragile glass icicles. I put them out around the tin star.

We also had a 'Baby's First Christmas' which my grandma bough me in 1902. I unwrapped it, staring at the pink ceramic cradle and the tiny baby inside of it. I pulled it out of the yellowing newspaper and began to place it one the table, but…

There is was. His face. Staring up at me from the picture. There was a wrinkle running through his nose and everything was yellow. Uncle David's face was contorted in a mixture of surprise and pain. My father had his chin up, grinning broadly. Like a leader. Brave, strong and committed. Committed to a cause.

I smoothed the paper out, slammed the ceramic ornament down and retreated to my bed.

Even from there I could see the chip on the smooth pink side.

0o0o0o0o0

Mama came in clutching a brown-paper wrapped box. It had neat scrawl on the side and three postage stamps on the top.

"Look what arrived from Uncle Les," said Mama breathlessly. She put the box down on the table, beside the ornaments and pulled the twine rope off. From the depths of the box she retrieved two boxes wrapped in colorful paper. She also found two letters enveloped in pink that smelt of rose water.

Uncle Les is my Mama and Uncle David's younger brother. He is thirty-one years old and lives in New Jersey with his wife, Aunt Ruth, and their three kids, my cousins, Elijah, Marilyn and Samuel. They all have very Jewish names because after Uncle Les married Aunt Ruth they started going to temple every Sunday and reading the Torah every night.

Mama folds the box carefully, placing the gifts on the tabletop with frailty. The folds of the box collapse easily into each other and Mama clears it off the table. She smiles as she glances around at the ornaments on the table, the popcorn probably still slightly warm and the tin star a little dusty.

Mama picks up my 'Baby's First Christmas' cradle and runs her finger over the chip. "What happened to this?" she asks.

0o0o0o0o0

Winters in New York City had always been a combination of oxymorons. It was alive, but eerily dead and lifeless. It was bustling and busy, yet slow and reserved. Things were flashy while maintaining a soft subtleness. Nothing was predictable or quite what it seemed. Everything was a surprise.

Shop fronts boasted Christmas trees and candle lit displays. Shoppers moved from place to place, clutching their purchases to them like children. Shiny black boots peeked out from layers of skirt, swirling in the cold and snow. On especially cold days I liked to sit out on the fire escape and watch the city moving below me. Once Uncle David said:

"You know, your father liked to sit out on our fire escape too. He would stay out there for—" but he was cut off with a look from my mother.

On the fire escape I could hang my legs over the side and I could feel the crispness of the air around me. I liked the winter atmosphere and the winter attitude. Everyone looked serious and sharp in their dark colours and bundled up selves. I enjoyed the softness of the harsh city after a snowfall, the way all the edges looked smoother and how it was so quiet in the streets.

I liked the serenity of it all. The nighttimes atop my fire escape, gazing down at the lights below me. That's where I was when she said it. On my sanctuary.

Mama stuck her head out the window and suggested I come in.

"I like it out here."

She shook her head with a hidden smile. "You really are you father's daughter." As soon as she said it her face froze. She looked away and mumbled a quick apology. Then she shut the window and retreated inside.

My father's daughter. Is this something that can be inherited? The love for the fire escape? To feel higher than everyone and in control of everything?

Are there fire escapes like this in Santa Fe? I wouldn't leave these for anything. Not even a dream of ridiculous misplaced responsibility and abandonment.

**End Chapter**

((Wow. I've just updated all of my 'In the Works' fics. Yes, all of them today! Wow! Be proud people! And go read them!))

**Shoutouts:**

**Two-Bits—**Yes, I am the master of suspense!

Charlie!Muse: That's not a good thing. You confuse me.  
Buttons: No _you_ confuse _me_!

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**Thanks for understanding. I solemnly swear to update faster in order to get Irish in quicker!

**Pancakes—**Thanks so much for the review and the very kind words! I love people like you! (grin)

**Hawk Kelly—**(stares into crystal ball) I see the appearance of Jack in the future…the near future? Hmmmmmm…

**Coin—**I think Nichole is kind of boring. She doesn't have a lot of personality and I think this is because I don't want to Mary Sue-ify her. It's this phobia I have.

**Ccat—**Well I'm glad you liked the questions. They were surprisingly hard to think of.

**C.M. Higgins—**We don't know that it won't be answered, now do we?

**XBeLLaViTaX/andthenyouwokeup—**Um…are you married to Blink? (checks notes) Yes! You are!

**Cyanne 76—**That's so sweet of you to notice (the research). It is actually a pain.

**mistymixwolf—**Jack has gone…to Santa Fe! (breaks into punk-rock rendition of _Santa Fe_)

**Gypsyruth—**You just did read more! Good for you! (shakes your hand enthusiastically)


	6. Medda

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 5—Medda **

On my way to the grocery to get carrots I passed Irving Hall. Sitting outside in front, smoking through a long cigarette holder, was Medda. She stared off into space, the corners of her eyes wrinkling in thought. There was a light snowfall and she wore delicate white lace, fingerless gloves on her hands and a thin black jacket clung to her shoulders.

I was a dreamer. I think that's what made me do it. There really is no other explanation. I was always curious and questioning.

I paused and glanced to her. The music from the Hall was pouring out into the street, thick and warm. I walked back and stopped next to Medda.

"Excuse me," I said softly, as I say most things.

Medda sighed deeply, and blinked. She drew the cigarette holder to her rouge lips and took a drag.

"I think you knew my father," I paused, unsure if she was listening to me.

She exhaled and tapped the end of her cigarette onto the ground. "Honey," she said, her voice surprisingly thin and smooth at the same time, "I know a lot of men."

"His name was Jack Kelly. He left in 1902."

Medda's eyes focused, the pale green in them becoming darker, more alert. "Ah, yes, Jack," she sighed. She reached a hand up and touched my cheek. Her hands were cold on the fingertips.

"You do look like Sarah. But you have your father's mouth."

And for some reason this made me want to cry.

0o0o0o0

Medda Larkson lived above Irving Hall. The walls in the hall were thin, so the sound of the show beneath carried up to her loft. Medda was very pretty. She smelled like perfume and cigarettes. Her hair was tied loosely around her hair, creating a red halo that framed her green eyes. Her room wasn't large, but it was luxurious. The bedspread was a thick, white cotton cover and the furniture all matched, in dark mahogany woods. The drapes around the tall windows were white and gossamer, like those one would find in a fairytale tower. Situated near the windows was a dark circular table with four chairs. Medda put on the kettle in the other room and brought teacups, sugar and milk to the table.

"Sit down, Nichole," she said.

I did.

Medda arranged her skirts and sat across from me. She shut her eyes and I could see the bluish veins running across her eyelids. "So what do you want to know about your father?" she asked after a long pause.

What _did_ I want to know? There had been so many questions and suddenly I had forgotten them all.

"I…I don't know…"

Medda opened her eyes, mildly surprised by my answer.

Medda sighed that long, tired sigh again. "There's so much and so little to know about Jack Kelly," she began. "I knew your grandfather, Calvin Sullivan. He was a troubled man. Always getting caught up in get-rich-quick schemes and dragging your father and his poor mother into it too. Around forty years ago by now, your grandmother caught a bad cold. She kept Cal and your daddy up all night coughing. She held on for almost three years, but she died in her sleep. She was a good woman, Juliana. Too good for your grandfather, I thought."

I hadn't thought about this. My grandparents.

"Then your grandfather got in over his head and he went to county prison for murder. Your father tried to keep alive on the streets, but he was young and was sent down to the Refuge. He broke out and found me. Your father has sat in that very chair many times."

I noticed Medda wouldn't use my father's name. She wouldn't side with either Jack or Francis.

"Now, as I understand," she hesitated a moment, as if deciding whether she should continue. "he is living in New Mexico. And I…I don't know much else." I knew she was lying, but it was more then anyone else had told me, so I didn't press any further.

Medda stood up to get the kettle and left me alone with my thoughts.

In New Mexico. This wasn't exactly a surprise, after all, it was his dream and what he had expected all along, but it seemed so real now. And how did Medda know this? Had she been keeping in touch with my father all these years? Who else had he been keeping in touch with?

Medda came back with the tea balanced on a tray with a plate of biscuits. She poured me a cup and I stirred in my milk.

"So…my father's alive?"

Medda smiled in a pained way, her lips tight as she stirred her tea. "Yes, he is."

"How do you…how do you know?" I asked next, fearing the answer.

Medda closed her eyes. "Your father's been writing to me," she admitted. She sipped her tea, not daring to make eye-contact with me.

I felt it. It began with a stinging in my nose. Then it was a blurring in my eyes. I wouldn't cry. I couldn't cry in front of Medda. In front of this woman who was so strong and such a role model to people. Mama wouldn't cry.

Mama would cry.

And then I heard Medda sniff. Through my own tears I could see a silent one sliding down her pale cheek. I wiped my eyes and looked around the room. Anything to avoid having to see her crying, otherwise I would cry too.

"I'm sorry Nichole," she said. "And I'm sorry to your mother. She is a good woman and I kept this from you two." Her voice was still thin and smooth.

Suddenly I wasn't sad anymore. I was angry.

"I'm going to find him," I said softly, surprising even myself. "I will save up and I will find him." The idea sounded stupider the more I said it. "You know where he lives, right?"

Medda looked reluctant. "Yes," she said, "but are you sure about this?"

I didn't have to think. I nodded, my jaw set and my face determined.

"Well then Nichole," Medda looked tired, "if there's anything I can do."

"There is," I paused a swallowed, frightened, "I need a job."

**End Chapter**

((Hey people! Did you forget about me? That's right! You can't because I'm seriously _that_ awesome! Please review!))

**Shoutouts:**

**andthenyouwokeup—**wow. So Varsity is just like Senior team for us. Wow. And I hope your studying/SATs went well!

**Mistywolf aka Perch—**Tee hee, you're funny.

**Pancakes—**You might show up again. This is a kind of events as I go thing. Sorry I didn't IM you! I only have MSN.

**JosiahGirl—**I know. Length is a big problem for me. I think I have ADD because I can't pay attention for so long. I have to end the chapters so soon.

**Gypsyruth—**You're so nice to shower me in compliments like that! I'm just happy that you appreciate it!

**C.M. Higgins—**Yeah. The Jacobs' are often Jewish, so I thought Les should be, even if I've already written Sarah and David out if it.

**Coin—**That's good. Without your attention you probably wouldn't be reading this.

**newsiefreak9er9er—**Guess what? You just found out what happens next! Wow!

**Hobbit1400—**Thanks for reviewing! Sorry for not having read your fic, I haven't had enough time and it's long!

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**I like how you used the word 'strife' in your review. It makes things seem so serious and grown up. Yes, I am a loser.


	7. Irving Hall

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 6—Irving Hall**

I left Medda's and forgot the concept of time. It was a blind wandering through the Manhattan streets. Occasionally a thought would waft through my mind, causing me to slow or accelerate. I weaved through crowds of people. My heels rang like a mantra.

_Click, click.  
Santa Fe.  
Click, click.  
Santa Fe._

It was obsessive. I sped up until all I heard were my shoes. The chant had blurred together.

_Click, click.  
Sanfe.  
Click, click.  
Sanfe._

I ran.

In the back of my mind I heard a voice like my mother's, but also strangely like mine. "Ladies don't run in public unless pursued."

But I did.

And fast and hard. Until I couldn't hear the voice. I could hear my boots on the ground, my breath in the air, and my heart, drowning out my thoughts. I brushed past people roughly, speeding through the clearings, my skirts trailing behind, my hair catching in my wake.

My arms ached and my muscles strained and finally I slowed. In the middle of Central Park.

_Click, click.  
Sanna Fe.  
Click, click.  
Sanna Fe._

The air was colder than I remembered, filling my lungs like a drink.

_Click…click…  
Santa…Fe…_

I leaned against a tree. Passer-bys avoided my eye.

Santa Fe.

I had inherited something else. It wasn't just the mouth and ears anymore. I had inherited an infatuation.

0o0o0o0

Mama asked me where I went. She asked where the carrots were and why I smelt so strongly of cigarette smoke. She asked why I was so red in the face.

"It's cold out," I told her. Then I washed my face and left again for the carrots. Mama looked worried.

I strode down the street, cutting through the crisp air like a knife. I didn't say anything. What was it like in New Mexico? Was it cold like it is here? No, I didn't think so. I thought it was warm and bright. Hazy by the afternoon, with sand blowing into updrafts in the wind. I was right.

Through shop doors Christmas music drifted. Shoppers rushed past, bundled in jackets and warm hats. I shoved my bare hands in my pockets, trying to keep the circulation in them. A woman with long navy gloves rushed past. I wanted those gloves. My fingers trembled.

The grocery was warm. I stepped in, pulling my hands from their hiding. The shop was bright and soft. Vegetables were arranged neatly in crates. I chose a bundle and paid the shopkeeper a nickel.

"Merry Christmas," he said.

I sniffed and tucked the carrots into my jacket. "Merry Christmas."

Mama and I don't do much for Christmas. Other than the tree and ornaments we don't have much for the season. We don't get each other gifts. If we did, I would like a pair of warm, long gloves. I would get Mama a whole roll of fabric so that she could make a new dress for herself. But these were only dreams; wishes and barely even fragments of the possible.

Mama made stew for dinner. It had lean beef, potatoes and soft carrots. It was warm and thick. We didn't talk much. I wanted to ask her about New Mexico, but I stopped myself. She wouldn't know. She hadn't been there.

0o0o0o0

Medda met me at the front of Irving Hall. It was four in the afternoon and already it was growing dark.

"Come inside," said Medda, "We'll show you what to do."

Eva Grace met us near a tall wooden staircase. It was surrounded by stage props: horse heads and a pink swing decorated in bowed ribbon. Her red-brown hair was curled majestically and piled atop her head. Her face was serious and her eyes watchful. She was shorter when I was this close to her.

"Come with me," Eva led me up the stairs. Her voice was stern and severe. Her boots were soft, barely making a sound as they hit the wooden panels. Her skirts of blue and purples swished gently against her covered ankles.

Behind the door at the top of the steps was a long, thin catwalk. Eva walked onto it without hesitation. I followed more carefully.

"This rope," said Eva, pulling lightly on a tan-coloured rope," is for opening and closing the curtains. This one," she tugged on a red one, "is for pulling out the swing for the finale."

She continued and told me when to pull each thing. Then, without asking me if I understood, Eva turned on her heel and descended the steps. I looked around, surrounded by the dusty curtains. I sneezed and sat down. I pulled my boots off so that I could feel all the detailing of the catwalk on my socked feet.

Music started, filling the hall with warm, smooth melodic music. Eva appeared below me. She struck a pose and I pulled the tan rope. The curtains opened and she began to sing. The crowd cheered her on. There were many young men. Newsboys were waving their hats in the air and singing along. I watched them in awe. They were my age, some even younger. Their mouths stretched wide as their mouths formed lyrics. They were so loud that they drowned out Eva at their favourite parts.

The door at the end of the catwalk clicked. Medda walked onto the walkway smoothly, stepping over my shoes. She sat by my feet, her skirts around her, her feet dangling over the edge of the ramp.

"Your father used to come see me dance," she told me, "and your uncles. But Les, he came more for the candy."

I spotted a man with a china white mask combing the crowds, selling licorice and taffy.

"Even your mother came once. She sat with your daddy. She looked happy. And Racetrack, that's Mr. Higgins now, he was the life of it all." She smiled fondly, remembering the night. She sighed. "Those boys. That was the night of the rally. I suppose you've heard all about it." She paused and glanced up at me.

I hadn't. I shook my head.

"They all came here. Your daddy, David and the leader of Brooklyn himself, Spot Conlon, were up on that very stage. The hall was full. Queens over there. Manhattan in that balcony, the Bronx up top." She pointed to sections. "It was inspiring. Everyone was on their feet. Then the bulls came. They raided my hall. Punched out poor Racetrack. Your uncle and daddy put up quite the fight. Used my old swing, your uncle did. And your daddy fought off so many of them. But they were caught. All of them, of course. Too much rebellion, that's what the bulls thought." Medda looked sad. "Your daddy was a good man. He would have done anything for his boys. And I thought he would have done anything for your mama too. I guess I was wrong."

The song ended. I drew the curtain.

"Things aren't the same anymore Nichole," Medda told me. "The newsies are a dying breed and there are no such things as heroes anymore. It's sad, really. And I'm growing older."

Medda looked lost in her thoughts. I pulled the curtains open again, my arms straining, battling with the heavy fabric.

Medda pulled something out of her bodice. "I want you to read this," she said, handing them to me. "They're your father's letters."

**End Chapter**

Hey! I'm ba-ack! Please review! And forgive me for taking the better half of an eternity to update! At least it was long-ish!

**Shoutouts:**

**mistymixwolf aka Perch—**(Nichole takes money and puts in collection can) Thanks!

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**Let me just say this, she will be going to New Mexico! Yes, she will!

**C.M. Higgins—**You saying 'over-sexed' made me laugh my ass off. I don't even know why.

**Two-Bits—**Thanks! That's all sweet of you to say. Sorry about the spelling/grammar. I rush when writing a lot.

**newsisfreak9er9er—**Muah ha ha, you keep wondering! That's right, fall into my plot trap.

**Pancakes—**Don't you hate administration sometimes? Fight the power!

**JosiahGirl—**Hey! You're pretty good at this whole deciphering my plot thing! Not that it wasn't totally obvious or anything. Tee hee.

**BoomerRang—**Aw! (blushes)

**Crystal Music—**It's kind of sad that we can all see Jack running off like this. It's really not good for his character.

**Ccat—**I am happy that your computer is fixed now! WOOT!


	8. Letters

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 7—Letters**

I left Irving Hall in the still of the night. The streets were cleared of all decent folks, having gone to bed or to spend the night with their families. It was cold and Christmas was in a week. The street lamps lit my way with a soft, yellow light. Frost clung to the shop fronts.

The lights were out in our flat while I dressed in my nightgown before putting my jacket back on and going out to the fire escape. There I pulled the letters out of my pocket, the paper of them yellowing and the ink faded. It was in his writing, something I had never seen before.

_December 18, 1902_

_Dearest Medda, my oldest friend,_

_If you haven't yet heard, I have left New York. I can not honestly say I don't miss it. I do. I didn't that that I would ever long for the loud streets, foreign smells or crowded quarters. I miss my boys. Who will be their leader? Can you find out for me?_

I have headed off. You know of my dreams, of how I long for the hot, wide open spaces, the likes of which I have never seen.

I suppose you may know about Sarah. You remember her, David Jacobs' sister. She is with child. My child.

Medda, I beg of you, do not tell Sarah or David that I am writing to you. I suppose I do love Sarah, but u was never one for a family. I miss David too. Things get lonely without a good conversation. I think, with time, Manhattan will learn to forget me. I hope this, at least

In the best situation. Sarah will find a man; one who our child will call her father. I didn't mean to leave this child fatherless. I didn't think I would leave Sarah alone.  
You have kept many secrets for me Medda, I only ask you keep this last one.  
_  
Francis Jack Kelly Sullivan_

_PS. Here's hoping you a wonderful Christmas._

It was cold and I could feel icy tears cutting down my cheeks. I wiped them away before they froze and read the next letter.

_January 1, 1903_

_Dear Medda,_

_Happy New Year! I am in Santa Fe. Everything is so different here, just like I predicted. The sky is bigger and people are slower. It is much hotter. However, the sun remains the same. I haven't much of a home yet. I am low on money and not skilled in Western trade, but I can learn. People are nice here. They are curious about New_

York, but I haven't the attitude to speak about it. I tell them that it's not as good as it seems.

I have found work at a ranch of an English family, cleaning out stables. I miss seeing you at Irving Hall, Medda. I hope the boys still come to see you. You know my favorite was always High Times, Hard Times_. I have such memories. Of course, there are parlor can-can girls here, but none who can hold a candle to your entertainment glory._

I hope you are well.  
Francis Jack Kelly Sullivan

I could hear city sounds when I paused to switch letters. I remember the strong surge of love for the city. Something about cities makes me happy. Who wants to be surrounded by miles of barren land? I pulled my jacket tighter and read on.

_January 20, 1903_

_Dear Medda,_

_I am getting used to things out here. I look forward to your letters. The English family has left the ranch to spend the rest of the winter in their country home. They say that it's in Maine, where there is snow. The middle daughter told me to write. Her name is Irish. This seems strange, considering that they're English, but her sisters are named France and Roma and her brother is named Moscow, which they tell me is a city in Russia. They have been all over and their names suggest so. I think Irish's name is the nicest though._

The cook, gardener, housekeeper and other stable boys are staying here as well. They are all very nice. I am staying with a boy named Paulie. He is eighteen and works in the stable with me. His father is a blacksmith and he has a shiny scar on one side of his face from the tongs.

Missing you,  
Francis Jack Kelly Sullivan

I flipped through the letters, glancing at the dates on the top. I stopped on a thicker piece of paper, embellished with doves and bells. Over two years had gone by. It read:

_March 7, 1905_

_Medda,_

_I am writing to you from the main house. I am in the den and I am very nervous. I am about to be married. I still cannot believe that Irish said 'yes', but she did. Her father doesn't trust me, but he is old and dying. Irish's mother fears that soon he will be gone. I bought a new suit. I think that I look quite handsome. It is plain black and smooth. I smell like the cinnamon soap that Irish uses. You would like it, it is spicy and fresh._

I am writing on the same paper we used for invitations. I am sorry that you weren't invited, but I think it best if no one knows about my newsie days. Medda, I really do love Irish. I think that this is the perfect time for a new start. A new beginning. Not everyone gets one of these.

Please wish me luck.  
Francis Jack Kelly Sullivan

Tears pooled in the corners of my eyes and I fell into bed, burying my head in my pillow, wetting it with my salty tears. The window was still open and I fell into a poignant sleep to the sound of the city and a dog howling.

**End Chapter**

Wow. That's all. Please review.

**Shoutouts:**

**mistymixwolf aka Perch—**(Nichole puts collections money into tin can) Thanks! The letters made poor Nichole sad.

**C.M. Higgins—**I never remember writing these things until someone quotes them. Thanks!

**Lady of Tir Na Nog—**Look! It's Irish! You _are_ demanding. But I would be too.

**Two-Bits—**I'm not continuing _The Newsie Soccer Team_ for a while. I don't know when it'll be up-and-running again. I've retired it for the time being.

**Ccat—**See Jack, you've disappointed everyone! (Jack looks sad). That's right. You _be_ sad.

**newsiefreak9er9er—**(Helps out of trap) There y'go! I have never been to Santa Fe, I hope I am portraying it properly.

**Cakes—**I like writing about the characters when they're older or younger. It's so much fun!

**Tessie26—**I don't mind Jack/Sarah. I didn't like Sarah that much, but I think she's allowed to have a guy once and a while. Even though he ran away in this fic…

**Klicks—**If you'd like, my fic is waiting to wed. And he thinks you're cute…tee hee!

**christianrockstar—**thanks for those nice words! Are you really a Christian rock star? You're not from Relient K, are you?


	9. Hating You and Meeting Emmanuel

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 8—Hating You and Meeting Emmanuel **

I woke up in the morning when my mother leaned over me to shut the window. "Peter and Alana came over this morning," she said. "What time did you get home last night?"

I shrugged and rolled over. "Late."

I saw her eyebrows knit with concern. "I don't like that you're out alone in the city so late by yourself. You're not falling into anything, are you?"

I didn't answer. Falling into anything? If only she knew. I was falling into the memory of the father I never knew. I slid my hand underneath my pillow and I could feel the smooth, sharp and tattered sheets of my father's letters.

"No Mama, I'm not falling into anything." My voice was muffled through the thick sheets.

She sat down next to me on the soft mattress. "Sometimes I worry about you Nichole." Her hand found my head and stroked my hair. "I worry that I haven't been enough in your life. But your father…" her voice broke and she trailed off.

I squeezed my eyes shut and begged to not cry. "I'm fine Mama. What time is it?"

She paused. "Nine," she pulled her hand away and got off my bed. "Time to get up. It's a new day. I think Peter and Alana were planning on going out today."

She stood up and I heard her footsteps retreat to the kitchen. The window was frosty and thick with fog. "Mama?" I whispered.

"Hmm?" she said, taking something out of the cupboard.

"I love you."

0o0o0o0o0

Peter and Alana were sitting in the den when I got to the Hunter's house. Mrs. Ashleigh Hunter let me in the front door. She was short, but her curly hair made her seem taller. It was wild, untamed hair, just like Mrs. Hunter, who was opinionated and outspoken. "Nichole's here," she called into the house.

Peter was sitting in his father's favourite leather chair and Alana was curled up on the couch. I remember thinking how calm everything looked. There was a fire on in the brick fireplace. Alana looked sleepy, staring at it.

"It's about time you got here." Peter stood up and nudged Alana.

Now, years later, when I look back on my childhood in New York, I remember the days we spent at Peter's house. His house was always full of adventure, antiquities covering the walls and filling up spare rooms. Mrs. Ashleigh Hunter thought that Mr. Hunter's collection of oddities and 'rare valuables' was useless, but we, the 'children' loved them. Peter always had something new to show us, something to show off. When we were very small we would make up stories and pretend to be princesses and princes hunting for jewels and mysterious items.

That day, when we left the house (closing the doors with the help of brass hand-crafted handles) we headed for the bakery. We always headed for Svenski's. They made the best Swedish pastries. As when Lyra and I had been there last, Cathlynn and Allegra were behind the counter. Allegra had a smudge on her nose and Cathlynn's hair was stuck to her neck in a mixture of sweat and matted yeast. We each ordered a pastry, paying our pennies and breathing in the bread-scented air.

With a mischievous look in her eye, Cathlynn pulled something out from behind the counter. "Want to try something?" she asked. Allegra took a break and sat on a stool in the corner of the shop. She shook her head, smiling, and pulled out a notebook.

"Note one," she said loudly, "Cathlynn once again manages to get in trouble with The Boss." She wrote this down, tucked a lock of dark blonde hair behind her hair, and chewed on the end of her pencil.

On a tray covered in delicate wax paper sat brown cookies. "Try one," said Cathlynn.

Alana poked one. Peter picked one up, smelt it, and took a bite. With his mouth full, he exclaimed, "They're good!"

Without hesitation Alana followed suit. Reluctantly, I did as well. The taste was rich and spicy. Pressing my tongue to the bottom of my mouth I swallowed, tasting as little of it as possible.

"It's good, isn't it Nichole?" asked Alana, reaching to take another from Cathlynn's tray, but pulling her hand away at Cathlynn's glare.

I nodded.

Cathlynn smiled. "I was experimenting. I thought that the cinnamon gives it a little something, don't you?"

Cinnamon. Just like the soap my father wore on his wedding day. The day he married a woman who wasn't my mother.

"It gives it something," I agreed.

0o0o0o0o0

Peter and Alana argued all the way to the movie theatre. The front doors were gold trimmed. Mr. Meyers was sitting in the ticket box. "Come to see the Charlie Chaplin flick?" he asked as we put our nickels on the counter.

We nodded. Mr. Meyers's was Lyra's half-brother and an ex-newsie. He was very handsome and had thick, curly hair. His eyes were the darkest green you will ever see and this, people say, is what drew his wife to him. Mrs. Kylie Meyers, or Leprechaun, as we sometimes caught Mr. Meyers's calling her, was native to Ireland. Mr. Meyers's dark green eyes reminded her of the Emerald Isle's shores. She was so in love with those eyes that she married Mr. Meyers's, who was twelve years older than her.

Mrs. Meyers manned the concession stand at the theatre. Peter treated us to popcorn.

"You'd bettar hurry up thare," said Mrs. Meyers, her accent thick and rough compared to our New York ones. Her Irish accent.

Every time Mrs. Meyers spoke that day it sent chills up my spine. I couldn't help but think about my father's wife. Irish.

0o0o0o0o0

That night, when I reported to Eva for work, I felt exhausted. She put me in charge of curtains again. I sat on the catwalk, waiting for something exciting to happen. Eva's act was the same as the day before, but what did I expect? Medda didn't appear next to me. I unlaced my boots and left the next to me, my stocking-ed feet hanging over the edge of the metal platform.

At one point, a man came up to the catwalk. A few feet away he leaned over the edge of the bar and tugged on a rope until a sandbag fell and hit the wooden floorboards below with a muted 'thunk'.

"Hi," he said, looking over and noticing me staring.

I looked away and then looked back. "Hello."

"You're the new girl, right?"

I nodded. "I'm Nichole Sullivan." The last name stung like a slap.

He rubbed his hand on his tattered brown corduroys. "Emmanuel Espinoza." We shook hands. In the darkness Emmanuel's hair looked black and slick. His chest was broad and he was wearing a blue shirt with suspenders.

I remember feeling that it was indecent, this man seeing me without my shoes on. I wasn't sure why and I later felt stupid for thinking this, but it was the biggest concern on my mind. He was handsome and a few years older than me. I had never had much experience with men who weren't family friends before. I stared down at my socks and listened to the song, waiting for my cue. I could hear Emmanuel breathing. He sat down beside me.

"Why're you here?" he asked.

I looked over at him. He had his head rested on one of the bars of the catwalk. His eyes were dark brown and he had very long eyelashes.

I didn't answer at first. Finally I said. "I needed some money."

Emmanuel got the hint and didn't ask any more questions, for which I was grateful.

"How old are you?" I asked him.

I smiled a bit. I could only see half of his face in the partial lighting. "Twenty-two. And you?"

The rope slid through my fingers as I lowered the curtain. He helped me tie it to the bar, holding it in place. "Nineteen."

We sat together up there until the show ended. When he left, I felt strangely worried. I wasn't worried about Emmanuel; I was worried about my father, my chest felt as if it was going to burst with frustration and anger. I worried that I would never make enough money to get to Santa Fe.

The street was quiet and the snow banks by the side of the road reached my mid-thigh. I pulled my coat around me; my skirt swished around my ankles and my boots clicked on the ground. I began to think _Santa Fe_ again with each footstep. Tears grew in my eyes. I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to miss my father this much.

And suddenly the night was broken by a shout. "Nichole!" someone called from behind me.

I stopped and turned.

He rushed up, his cheeks were red and he was not wearing a coat over his thin blue shirt. He half smiled. "I know you don't know me, but do you think you'd like to meet for coffee tomorrow? I know a nice place around here."

My breath caught in my chest but, without hesitation, I said yes.

He smiled. "Meet me at Irving Hall at nine then?"

"I'll see you then."

He turned and left. When he was about to turn the corner he looked over his shoulder at me.

But why did I do it? Why did I agree to go for coffee with him? At the time I was very confused by this. I was a shy child, rarely taking chances or taking to new people easily. There was just something about him. After some time I discovered just what it was: Emmanuel made me forget about everything else. When we were standing there in the nighttime street I stopped worrying about my father and instead I thought only about us, right then, in the winter street.

**End Chapter**

((OK, I know I have been slacking off. In fact, I probably would have been lying around doing nothing all day if I hadn't gotten a review from GlumAndDumb asking about updates. And so I updated. A few points about this chapter, the thing about the cinnamon soap is what led to my entire thought process behind Nichole hating everything to do with Jack and his new life. The whole cinnamon thing came from me and my ex-boyfriend. He loved cinnamon gum and always smelled like cinnamon. I loved it then, but I broke up with him and he started hitting on my best friend so now I get sick every time I smell cinnamon. I think that I'm basing a lot of Nichole's personality around me, but a lot is totally opposite. For example, I am very stubborn as opposed to Nichole who seems to be becoming meek but determined…if that's even possible. ANYways, just review. And please have faith in my updating and read on. Thank you to everyone who reviewed for the last chapter))


	10. Morning Breakfast

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 9—Morning Breakfast **

It was early in the morning when I rolled out of bed. My hair was sticking to the side of my face and I dragged the sheets behind me as I made my way to the kitchen. The window beside my bed, over the fire escape, was wide open, gaping like a mouth.

I fumbled with the kettle, filled it with water, and set it on the stove to boil. I then heated the iron and put a cup and saucer on the kitchen table. With sleepy eyes I inspected myself in the cracked, full-length mirror on the wall and ran a trembling hand through my hair. My eyes. I sighed and ran a finger across my brow. Pale green eyes. They're not my mama's, because hers are blue, and their not my father's, his are grey. They're all mine. I pinched my cheeks so that colour rose in them.

I rifled through my dresser, pulling out a faded blue skirt and my soft white shift. I chose a white blouse with a rounded collar and hastily ironed it. I remember, I was careless. I burned a spot between my thumb and my index finger. The scar is still there now, it reminds me of my excitement, of that inexplicable feeling. I poured myself the tea, still clutching the bed sheet around my shivering body. Shivering from the cold and from excited anticipation.

"Why are you up so early?"

Her question startled me. I almost spilt the hot water on myself, but steadied my hand and saved myself from a second burning. My mother stood in the doorway of the bedroom. Her hair was down and she was wearing a long white nightgown. Her toes clung to the wooden floor, something she did when she was cold. I remember that she looked very frail; very thin.

"I'm going out for breakfast."

My mother pulled the window closed over my bed and proceeded to take a cup and saucer out of the cupboard. I poured her some tea and she drank it plain. I dressed swiftly, buttoning the blouse rapidly and clipping the skirt in place. I laced up my brown leather boots deftly. When I looked up my mother was gazing at me with a strange, sad look on her face.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

She smiles a bit, but her eyes are still glazed over. "You're just growing up, that's all." She looks to me and runs her finger around the rim of the teacup. "You're taking a chance. With a boy. And I want to stop you, to keep you safe, but I can't bring myself to get in your way. I don't want you to get hurt like I did."

There were fine wrinkles around her mouth and forehead. Her eyes were surrounded by crow's feet—laugh lines even though she doesn't laugh very often.

"Don't worry Mama." _I won't get in over my head._

She nodded, but she looked worried all the same.

0o0o0o0

The street was cold and Irving Hall was dead this early in the morning. The chair that was familiar to Medda was vacant and was propped on top of the small table. Her ashtray was overflowing with cigarette butts which had grown frosty in the early morning dew. Emmanuel was wearing a grey jacket with the collar upturned. His black newsboy cap was creased and worn-looking. Even though it was December his face was tanned.

"'Morning," he said. He exhaled and his breath showed in the cold air. The streets were dead, still tired and wintry. "Sleep well?"

I shoved my gloved hands into my pockets and scrunched my neck into my collar, hiding it from the chill of the wind. "Yes. And you?"

"Very well." He stubbed his cigarette out into Medda's ashtray. "Shall we?"

We walked briskly down the streets, longing to get out of the cold, but cautious of hidden ice patches. My toes were feeling numb and I wished I had put on another pair of socks. After a three minute walk we ducked into a small restaurant café. The air was thick with the smell of cooking oils and the waiters were dressed in red-and-white striped vests and crisp white shirts. Emmanuel greeted the seating host as if old friends.

"Do you bring many girls here Mr. Espinoza?" I asked.

Emmanuel smiled and unfolded the cloth napkin onto his lap. "I'm afraid to say that you're the first."

"Really? Why me?" I felt a strange thrill, being a flirt like this. What my mother would say…but she wasn't there and I pushed her face to the back of my mind.

Emmanuel took a second to answer; he arranged the salt and pepper shakers and fingered his silverware. "Something about you Nichole; I'm curious."

I tapped my toes on the floorboards, mostly to get the feeling back into them. "About what? I am not a very secretive person Emmanuel."

"You were secretive enough last night. About the job."

I felt my cheeks flush and I stared to my lap so that he wouldn't see them. "I told you, I need the money."

A sad, knowing look passed over Emmanuel's face. "A man," he whispered. "That's what it is, isn't it? And now he's gone."

I nodded, tears growing and my nose burning. The happy, floating feeling inside of my was dying.

"Listen, Nichole," he said, peering at me with concerned eyes. "I don't care about it. Any of it. Any man is a jerk to leave someone like that, and I don't care about the baby."

_The baby…?_ I looked up, my tears already receding and confusion setting in. "What baby?"

Immediately Emmanuel looked uncomfortable. "You mean you're not…?"

_Not what…not…_ "I'm not pregnant," I hissed, careful to keep my voice down."And the man is my father."

Emmanuel said nothing. He stared at his fork and bent the prongs back and the forth before looking back at me. He opened his mouth but made no sound.

"Can we talk about something else?"

"Nichole, I—"

"I don't really want to talk about it. My father is not someone I talk about with my friends, let alone someone I met less than a day ago."

"I was going to say that I probably don't know how you feel. But you can tell me"

Across the table I glared at him.

"No, really," Emmanuel smoothed out a wrinkle on the tablecloth. "If it helps, I'll tell you about my parents. Both my parents died when I was two months old."

Instantly my eyes softened from the glare. "Are you serious?" I whispered.

Emmanuel's eyes met mine. "Yes."

My anger dissolved into awe which quickly turned into sadness. A warm tear fell down my face. "I'm sorry," I mumbled. "But he left before I was born and I've never met him. I just…" I hiccoughed and dabbed at my eyes with the napkin. "I just want to find him." _So that I can ask him why he doesn't love me_.

"Are you ready order?" A sheepish waiter gave me an apologetic shrug.

Emmanuel reached across the table and touched my hand. "Yeah, I think that'd be nice."

**End Chapter **


	11. Merry Hanukah

**Title: **A Hero's Sin

**Author: **Buttons

**Rating: **PG-13/T

**Genre:** Drama/General

**Chapter 10—Merry Hanukah **

It was around this time in my life that I started to dream.

Not that I didn't dream before! But these dreams were different. They were more vivid. If I believed in them, or if they seemed even marginally plausible, I would have thought I was having visions or seeing the world through the eyes of someone else. However, I'd given up long ago actually possessing the body parts of anyone but myself. At least, in terms of my mouth, ears and father.

But these dreams were something else. They seemed so real. No matter how ridiculous they were, I would always convince my dream-self that they made perfect sense. If the dream took place in a desert, I would wake up with my covers thrust to the floor, panting and sweat forming on my brow line. If the dream was in a valley, I would see grass stains on my knees until I turned the light on. These dreams instilled a belief that I hold dear, even today: everything becomes clear in the light.

Now, these dreams could be just accounted to stress, in any normal circumstance. But my circumstances were not normal. They were far from it, in fact. Plus, there was one common thread that connected the dreams. A theme, shall we say, that I could not overlook as coincidence. Each one starred my father, in black and white (as that is the only way I've ever seen him) and Emmanuel. In the first dream, they were sitting on a beach, on top of a tall dune. I climbed up the dune to get to them and by the time I reached the top my hands were brown with sand and sweat and my toes were gritty with gritty grains. They sat at a table, playing chess with gorgeous marble chess pieces that I had seen earlier in the week at a department store. My father was the black pieces and Emmanuel was the white ones. There was a small pile of pawns and one black castle beside Emmanuel and more pawns plus a bishop beside my father.

"_What's going on?"_ I had asked, out of breath.

"_Dear,"_ said my father, in what I imagined his voice sounded like, _"your friend and I are playing chess. For you. Whoever loses will never see you again."_

Emmanuel didn't answer. I looked to his face. He was grinding his teeth together and concentrating on the board.

"_But why? If you want to see me, you can both see me!"_ I shouted at Emmanuel. He just ignored me and moved his pawn forward one space.

My father grinned a pointy-toothed smile. _"Check."_

And I woke up with a solitary tear running down my face. I blinked, as if clearing dream-sunlight from my eyes. The flat was dark and my mother's door was closed. Moonlight slanted in the window and my window was open, letting in snowflakes. I shut it slightly and pulled my sheets tight around me. The half-dead Christmas tree was sitting in the corner, the popcorn strands seemed to glow in the dark. It took me a few minutes to realize the date: Christmas morning, 1920. With the comforting thought of Christmas breakfast in my head, I fell into my mattress and back into rocky dreams.

0o0o0o0

It is late in the morning when I woke. I did not wake willingly, but because my cousin Samuel was jumping on my bed. I thought I was dreaming again. I rolled over, pulling my covers after me and shoving four-year-old Samuel off the bed in the process.

_Bang!_

I sat straight up. "What in God's name was that?" I screamed.

From the kitchen table, my mother 'tsk'ed. "Nichole, I thought I'd let you sleep in, since it's Christmas. Now help your cousin off the floor and get dressed."

My Uncle Les and his wife, my Aunt Ruth, were sitting on either side of my mother, drinking black coffee and watching me with passive interest. "Sorry Sam," I muttered, pulling Samuel to his feet and brushing him off, but I couldn't help wondering, W_hat are they doing here_? _Should I have known about this?_

Samuel looked right into my eyes. "It's fine," he said, "I shouldn't have woken you. But aren't you excited? It's the first day of Hanukah!"

"Huh?"

Samuel ran away and grabbed a candlestick holder off of the window ledge. It was gold-varnished and had eight places for candles. "Hanukah!" he exclaimed, brandishing the candlestick holder at me.

"Sammy, it's Christmas," I told him, trying to hide my confusion,

"Nichole," called my mother from the table, "remember that Christmas is a _Christian_ holiday?"

And then it clued in. Right. Uncle Les was Jewish now.

"Well, Merry Hanukah," I said to Samuel, prying the candlestick holder from his hands and placing it back on the window ledge before he took out someone's eye. "Where're Marilyn and Elijah?"

"Sleeping," Samuel told me earnestly. "But I'm up because I'm so excited and because Uncle David is coming over soon and so is Aunt Emily and Aunty Sarah says that her neighbors are coming over for breakfast, but that you have to make the toast and I told her that I'd set the table, except that first Eli—"

"Uh-huh…listen, Sam, let me go get changed and then we can start on breakfast, alright?"

Sam nodded eagerly and settled himself amongst my still-warm bed sheets. I entered my mother's room and rifled through her drawers, searching for a clean blouse. I settled on a blue short-sleeved one from around when my mother was my age. I put a knit sweater on top to cut the cold. Elijah and Marilyn were dozing on my mother's bed, so I tiptoed around, careful not to wake them.

Back in the main room Sam had fallen asleep on my bed and my mother was turning on the stove. Someone knocked at the door. "That must me David and Emily, Nichole, could you get that please?"

But it wasn't Uncle David and Aunt Emily. "Emmanuel?"

He pulled his hat off his head. "Merry Christmas! Can I come in?"

I nodded and stepped aside to let him though the door. "How do you know where I live?"

"Medda told me," he answered.

My mother turned around and spotted Emmanuel. "Oh, hello. Are you a friend of Nichole's?" she asked, wiping her hands on her apron and extending her hand.

Emmanuel introduced himself to everyone. "I'm so sorry to interrupt all of you this morning. I was just—"

"Oh! It's no problem at all. Won't you stay for breakfast?" My mother forced a cup of coffee into his hand.

"I suppose I could," Emmanuel said with a soft chuckle. Immediately Uncle Les struck up a conversation about how much New York City had changed since he was a kid.

"I can't imagine raising my children in a city these days. My wife and I have a small country home out in New Jersey. A wonderful environment for bringing up my sons and daughter. I remember back when I was the age of my eldest son, about nine, I was a newsboy, or a 'newsie', was we liked to call ourselves. Funny really, Nichole's father—"

"I'm sorry to interrupt sir, but you said you were a newsie?"

Uncle Les smiled in what I imagined he thought was a reminiscent way. "Yes, in Manhattan. Nichole's father was somewhat of a hero to us…"

"My brother was a newsie too."

Uncle Les snapped out of his daydream. "You don't say? What was his name?"

"Dominic Espinoza. He had a nickname though…Bumlets."

Uncle Les's hopeful face faltered from it's smile. "Yes, I remember your brother. Daresay I cried a bit when he died. But I was a kid."

"It's alright. I didn't know him well. I was too young to remember him. But you say Nichole's father was a newsie too?"

Uncle Les re-installed the smile to his face. "Why yes, the _infamous_ Jack Kelly. Quite a hero, Jacky Boy. Good ol' Cowboy. I looked up to him. Followed him around a bit like a lost puppy, actually. Wish I knew exactly what happened to him."

"Yeah," Emmanuel caught my eye. "Yes, I've heard about him."

**End Chapter**

((Please, please, please review! Even if you've never reviewed before. I feel deprived, but that is probably my own falut. Hey, at least I'm honest.))


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